I believe I am the Potions master at this school
by Possum132
Summary: Musings on what might have been going through the minds of Argus Filch, Gilderoy Lockhart and Severus Snape the night that Harry made the step up from castle befouling to cat molesting.
1. Chapter 1: Argus Filch

**I believe I am the Potions master at this school**

_This vignette isn't part of the seven part series that starts with "Why Snape never eats here" – it's just a reflection on what Filch, Lockhart and Snape were thinking the night that Mrs Norris was Petrified. However, if you read the series you will get a better feel for the particular version of the Potterverse in which the story is set._

_There's nothing earth-shattering in this, just a little fun with a couple of minor characters._

**Chapter 1: Argus Filch**

He doesn't normally eat in the Great Hall with the teaching staff and the students, he normally eats in the kitchen with the house elves or takes a snack in his office – fried fish with chips is his favourite, and Mrs Norris always has a bite of the fish, she always has a little something from his plate to be companionable. But Halloween and Christmas feasts are an exception to the rule, so tonight he's put on an old and rather mouldy looking tail coat and joined the professors for dinner. You can't have a cat at the High Table so Mrs Norris has gone her own ways, patrolling the corridors, keeping an eye out for mischief ... she'll fetch him quick as a wink if Peeves or a student is up to no good, that cat is as smart as whip, she can almost talk, and she keeps an eye on that Hagrid when he comes up to the castle, too.

Hagrid! Hagrid shares his ambiguous status, not a professor but a member of staff, and not a qualified wizard, either, but he's not friends with Hagrid, definitely not. They're oil and water really, though they both have their shameful secrets - Hagrid was expelled from Hogwarts in his third year and they broke Hagrid's wand, but he never attended Hogwarts as a student at all, and that's worse ... much, _much_ worse. And he knows very well what Hagrid keeps hidden in that pink umbrella – and how he gets his pumpkins to grow so big for Halloween. Hagrid might have to ask the Headmaster's permission before he can put a charm around the hen coop, but at least he _can_ cast a charm, and that's a bitter pill to swallow, it's bitter to think that the half-breed lump can cast a charm, and he can't. No, he can't levitate so much as a feather, he can't use _Evanesco_ or _Scourify_ or any of a dozen useful little cleaning spells that would make his life so much easier, even though he's the son of a long line of pureblood wizards and witches and he should have been Sorted into Slytherin.

Yes, he should have been Sorted into Slytherin, and he hasn't forgotten where his House loyalties lie, even though he's a disgrace to his family, even though if the students were to discover his secret the Slytherins would despise him even more than the other Houses. He remembers the conversations in hushed voices when the adults thought he wasn't listening, he remembers the trials his parents put him through - he'd been dangled out of windows and thrown off jetties and pushed onto broomsticks, and nothing had come of it save a few broken bones and, on one occasion, a three day stretch in St Mungo's. He remembers the shouting and the tears on the day that his parents finally accepted that he had no magic, the day the rejection letter came from Hogwarts, because he'd had his name down there from the day that he was born. His father had accused his mother of having an affair with a Muggle, had said _he's no son of mine_ - and then his father had walked out of the house and not come back for a week.

He'd been lucky, really, he could have been sent to live with Muggles, but his parents had been friendly with Professor Slughorn, and Slughorn had found a place for him as assistant to old Apollyon Pringle - and so he'd come to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in his teens, though not as a student. But the position of caretaker of Hogwarts castle is at least respectable, and Hogsmeade is the only purely wizarding community in Britain, so he doesn't have to mix with Muggles.

Professor Flitwick is offering him treacle pudding, so he accepts a piece, and mumbles his thanks. The Professor is a very decent sort of a chap, hopelessly soft on the students of course – like most of the staff - but he really hasn't got that much to say to him, or to any of the teaching staff, he can hardly talk to _them_ about how hard it is to get frog brains off a dungeon ceiling, that's a ladder job, that is - unless Professor Snape is in a good mood and has a moment to spare, and then it's just a couple of muttered words and a wave of the wand. Just a wave of the wand and all that muck cleared away – wouldn't that be bloody marvellous! So he'd dug out his father's old wand and sent away for that Kwikspell correspondence course, and he'd been very, very discreet – he'd taken a box at the Hogsmeade post office, he hadn't even risked having it delivered to the school, couldn't take a chance on a student finding out ... but now Potter _knows_.

He feels a bit sick at the thought, he really doesn't feel like filling up on rich puddings when Potter knows his secret, when Potter has probably told all of the Gryffindors, and if he's told the Gryffindors, it'll be all over the whole school in no time, and Merlin knows how the students might torment him when they know that he has no magic. Of course the students don't like him, they hate detention with him, they _hate_ cleaning things, Muggle-style, without magic – but what do they know of hard work? They've got house elves to do all the cooking and the laundry and to tidy the common rooms and the dormitories, and they've got him to do all the swabbing and mopping and polishing. Oh, the students have an easy life here at Hogwarts, and from what he can see, their lessons are more like play – transfiguring raccoons, hurling cushions around the classroom, making bangs and explosions and brightly coloured smoke ... and Potter is the Boy Who Lived, he's a celebrity, he wouldn't have to lift a finger when he's at home either, even if he does live with Muggles.

Surreptitiously, he looks over towards the Gryffindor table but he can't see Potter or his two friends, the youngest Weasley boy and the Muggle-born Granger girl, where could they be? Students don't usually miss a feast, even Fred and George Weasley would rather stuff themselves at a banquet than make mischief, so what are they up to? And Potter is a horrid, sneaking little beast, he's been breaking rules from the very beginning ... last year he'd caught Potter and Weasley trying to break into the third floor corridor on the very first day of classes, and then he'd found them up the Astronomy Tower with Granger, at one o'clock in the morning - and that was some kind of a nasty prank, trying to get young Draco Malfoy into trouble, a bit like the pranks Potter's father and his gang used to play on Professor Snape.

James Potter and his best friend, Sirius Black, they'd been quite the double act, the leaders of their little gang ... what did they call themselves, the Marauders? They'd made his life a misery, they'd been worse than the Weasley twins, Dungbombs and Fanged Frisbees hadn't been the half of it, the horrible little bastards could get away with absolute murder. Professor McGonagall had a blind spot the size of a Hungarian Horntail for her star Quidditch player and her star Transfiguration student – and they almost always served their detentions with Hagrid, not with him, so he'd hardly ever had the chance to set them some cleaning work, Muggle-style, scrubbing the bedpans in the Hospital Wing or polishing a few suits of armour, some of the less co-operative ones ...

Young Severus Snape usually served detention with him – and Snape had plenty of detentions, too, but he'd felt a bit sorry for Snape, which was pretty unusual, he mostly loathed students, or at least the kind of students who earned themselves detentions, but as Snape's detentions were almost always for hexing the Marauders he'd gone easy on Snape. He'd mostly got him to copy out old disciplinary records or tidy his filing cabinets, little make-work jobs like that, and a good thing, too, because only a couple of years after Snape graduated from Hogwarts, he'd returned – as Professor Snape, Potions master. He'd been a bit nervous of Professor Snape at first, but the Professor didn't seem to hold all those detentions against him, not that he tolerates any familiarity, it's "sir" or "Professor" at all times.

Now Professor Flitwick is saying something about the troll that disrupted last year's Halloween feast, appalling mess it made in that girls' toilet, and who had to clean it up? And what a pity it wasn't Moaning Myrtle's toilet, because if it had been, he might have been able to persuade the Headmaster to close it off, let him put up a permanent "Out of Order" sign, and cut off the water supply – and that would have cooked her goose, the little cow, stopped her from causing a flood in the corridor whenever she gets into a snit. Then he remembers that Potter was involved in that incident, too, and he thinks, Potter can't keep out of trouble, there was that mysterious business with Professor Quirrell at the end of last year, supposedly Quirrell was a Dark wizard and he'd been after some treasure kept at the school, and Quirrell had ended up _dead_, a strange business alright ... and it makes you wonder, doesn't it, what Potter might be capable of? After all, Potter saw off He Who Must Not Be Named when he was only a baby, and that must have taken powerful magic, _very_ powerful magic, and who knows what kind of powerful magic? But the Headmaster has a soft spot for Potter, because Potter and Weasley weren't expelled for that business with the flying car at the start of term, they got off with a warning and a detention, and Professor Snape wasn't happy about that, was he?

He glances down the table towards Professor Snape, and notices with some surprise that the Professor is also looking towards the Gryffindor table, frowning slightly, has he noticed that Potter and his friends are missing from the feast? But if they were up to no good, Mrs Norris would have reported to him ... and he thinks, my sweet, you're like another pair of eyes and another pair of hands, I don't know what I'd do without you! Oh, I know it's the dearest wish of half the student body to give you a kick but they wouldn't _dare_, and they wouldn't dare to hex you, either – I'd go straight to the Headmaster and he wouldn't stand for it, hexing a helpless animal ...

The feast is finally finished, and although it's been a good dinner he can't say that he's sorry that it's over, and the students pour out of the Great Hall, making a tremendous racket. It's well past their normal bed-time, and their normal bed-time is far too late in his opinion, anyway – students should either be at meals, in their classrooms or in their common rooms, allowing them so much free time to roam about unchecked is just inviting trouble – and he needs to do his rounds and find Mrs Norris before _he_ can go to bed.

Aimlessly, he follows a gaggle of students up a flight of stairs, wondering why Mrs Norris hasn't materialised at his feet as she usually does, and he's starting to feel more than a prickle of anxiety because where can she be? Mrs Norris is so much more than a pet, so much more than a cat, she's his _friend_, his best friend - to be frank, she's his only friend - and he'd expected her to be waiting for him at the door of the Great Hall. So where can she be?

Suddenly, the students' chatter and bustle stop, he can hear Draco Malfoy shouting something about _enemies of the heir_ and _Mudbloods_, and he shoulders his way through the crowd to find out what's going on.

Daubed on the wall of the corridor, between two windows, in foot high letters, is a peculiar message.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

He stares at the words in puzzlement, of course he knows what the Chamber of Secrets refers to, but Salazar Slytherin's secret chamber doesn't exist, there have been any number of searches for it, and he knows the castle back to front and inside out, and he's never found it - and while _he_ might have missed something, Mrs Norris wouldn't ... and then he realises what the dark shadow hanging from the torch bracket below the writing is.

He shrieks, "My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs Norris?"

Then he recognises the three students standing alone in the middle of the passageway, standing next to the body of Mrs Norris, students with the unmistakable look of people who have just been cornered, students who look _guilty_.

Potter! Potter and his two hangers-on ... it must be Potter, it must be Potter who's killed his cat, and this isn't a joke, this isn't a prank, this is _murder_. The little monster has murdered Mrs Norris! And the Gryffindor has been cunning enough to think of a way to cover up his tracks, a way to put the blame on to the Slytherins, and it would have worked, too, if he hadn't been caught red-handed at the scene of the crime.

"_You!_" he screeches. "_You!_ You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll - "

And he thinks, if I had a wand and I could use it, oh yes I'd kill him, I've heard of the curse that would do it, the _Avada Kedavra_ ... but then he hears the Headmaster calling his name, and Dumbledore sweeps between him and Potter, detaches Mrs Norris from the torch bracket, lifts her down and cradles her in his arms.

"Come with me, Argus," says Dumbledore. "You too, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger."

He thinks, the Headmaster knows it was them, he's on to them – and this means expulsion for the three of them, at the very least it's got to be expulsion for a crime like _this_. It should be whipping, it should be Azkaban – but at the very least it will be expulsion.

Professor Lockhart steps forward eagerly. "My office is nearest, Headmaster – just upstairs – feel free - "

Dumbledore thanks Lockhart, and they head towards the stairs, through the silent crowd that parts to let them pass, and he realises that Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape are following them. Professor McGonagall is the Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor, this is her business, too, and Professor Snape ... well, Professor McGonagall is getting on a bit and it's pretty obvious who the Headmaster depends on. Professor Snape is the Headmaster's right hand man, and one day he might be Headmaster himself, the first Slytherin Headmaster since Phineas Nigellus, and about time, too.

Professor Lockhart shows them into his office, lights the candles on his desk and stands back, and the Headmaster lays Mrs Norris on the polished surface of the desk. He begins examining her, the tip of his nose barely an inch from her fur, and his long fingers gently prodding and poking her. Professor McGonagall is bent almost as close, Professor Snape is standing back, half in shadow, and Professor Lockhart is hovering about, saying dreadful things about torture curses and hideous atrocities committed in Africa.

He wonders how Mrs Norris died and if it was painful, and maybe Potter did it Muggle-style, strangled or beat her ... and if he did, expulsion won't be enough, no it won't, and he'll take matters into his own hands if he has to. He slumps in a chair by the desk, sobbing, his face in his hands, but he can still hear the Headmaster muttering incantations under his breath, and then Dumbledore says, "She's not dead, Argus."

Not dead? But Mrs Norris must have been dead for _hours_, she's gone all stiff and horrible, and he's seen dead animals before, occasionally one of the students' pets dies - a cat or a rat or a toad – and it's his job to arrange with Hagrid to have it buried. Yes, he's seen dead bodies before, and after a couple of hours they go all stiff and cold and flattened, just like Mrs Norris.

"Not dead?" he chokes, looking through his fingers at Mrs Norris. "But why's she all – all stiff and frozen?"

"She has been Petrified," says Dumbledore. "But how, I cannot say."

Sweet Merlin, Mrs Norris isn't dead, she isn't _dead_ ... but Petrified or dead, it doesn't make any difference, it's still Potter's fault.

"Ask _him!_" he shrieks, turning towards Potter.

"No second-year could have done this," says the Headmaster firmly. "It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced - "

And what makes the Headmaster so sure that Potter doesn't know Dark magic? Is Potter above suspicion just because he was Sorted into _Gryffindor?_

He's choking on it, but out it comes, the admission that he's a disgrace, a freak, a more disgusting aberration than even a Mud-blood.

"He did it, he did it!" he spits, his face purpling. "You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found – in my office – he knows I'm a – I'm a ... he knows I'm a Squib!"

"I never _touched_ Mrs Norris!" protests Potter. "And I don't even know what a Squib _is._"

This bare-faced lie is enough to take his breath away, of course Potter had looked at that Kwikspell letter and he must know what it meant - and how he could have been so stupid as to leave that letter lying on his desk for Potter to find? But he'd had to leave the room, by the sound of that bang Peeves had really done some damage, but he'd been wrong about that wrecked Vanishing Cabinet, it wasn't much use without the other one of the pair and Dumbledore had just told him to get rid of it because it wasn't worth fixing.

"Rubbish!" he snarls. "He saw my Kwikspell letter!"

The Headmaster and Professor McGonagall are looking puzzled, as if they can't understand what his Kwikspell letter has got to do with it, but thank Merlin Professor Snape is speaking up, asking the right questions.

"If I might speak, Headmaster," says Professor Snape. "Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why were they in the upstairs corridor at all? Why weren't they at the Halloween feast?"

The Gryffindors start yapping about the Gryffindor Ghost's Deathday Party, claiming that the ghosts can confirm that's where they were ...

"But why not join the feast afterwards?" asks Professor Snape. "Why go up that corridor?"

The Gryffindors look confused, and Potter babbles something about being tired and wanting to go to bed.

How can anyone be expected to believe this, when ghosts don't provide food fit for living people at their parties? The Weasley boy is claiming that they weren't hungry, but his rumbling stomach gives the lie to _that_. Oh, it's clear that the little swine are hiding something, they know something that they're not telling, and Professor Snape knows they're not being truthful, too. Professor Snape is suggesting that Potter should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he's ready to be honest, but Professor McGonagall won't agree, she's saying there's no evidence at all that Potter has done anything wrong.

How can she say this, when Potter has been found at the scene of the crime, with no credible explanation of how he came to be there? When Potter is clearly lying?

The Headmaster looks at Potter, and says, "Innocent until proven guilty, Severus."

What's this nonsense, innocent until proven guilty? That might be all right in the Wizengamot, but this is a _school_ – full of students, students who lie and cheat and sneak and befoul the castle ... students who should be presumed guilty until proven innocent. And there have been no points deducted, no detentions handed out, it's unbearable, it's an intolerable insult to Mrs Norris. Is she worth _nothing_, just because she's only a cat? Because she belongs to a Squib?

"My cat has been Petrified!" he shrieks. "I want to see some _punishment!_"

The Headmaster tries to soothe him, tries to calm him, tells him that when Professor Sprout's Mandrakes have reached their full size, a potion can be made that will revive Mrs Norris. He starts to relax a little, because they haven't invented a potion that Professor Snape can't brew, when Professor Lockhart butts in. "I'll make it, I must have done it a hundred times, I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep -"

"Excuse me," says Professor Snape icily, "but I believe I am the Potions master at this school."

There's an awkward silence, and then the Headmaster dismisses the Gryffindor brats.

He's heard that Professor Lockhart has stepped on the toes of every member of the staff, he's even managed to annoy Hagrid, but this is the first time he's actually seen it for himself. He even forgets Mrs Norris for a moment, because Professor Snape is looking absolutely murderous and he knows that it was only the presence of students that kept Professor Snape from saying something much, much stronger to Professor Lockhart.

The door bangs behind the departing brats, Professor Snape swings round on Professor Lockhart, but the Headmaster is raising his hand in warning – it's rare to see Dumbledore openly exerting his authority like this – and whatever the Professor was about to say, he thinks better of it, and without another word he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.

Professor Lockhart is beaming at him, "Well, now we've got the problem with your cat sorted out, I think it's off to bed for all of us, don't you think? And don't worry, Filch, if Professor Snape runs into any problems with the Restorative Draught, I'm always happy to pass on my expertise to less able wizards."


	2. Chapter 2: Gilderoy Lockhart

**Chapter 2: Gilderoy Lockhart**

The Headmaster is twinkling at him, slipping a third piece of custard tart onto his plate, and he can't really say no, even though he's painfully aware that with all the rich puddings they serve at Hogwarts he's had to let his robes out once already. He pours himself another goblet of wine, makes a couple of knowledgeable remarks about the vintage, and thinks, how could I have forgotten about these ghastly Scottish winters? That's one thing that hasn't changed since I was a student here, though a few other things have ... Binns has died but he's still teaching, the old caretaker Pringle has gone and his assistant Filch has got the job now, Flitwick and Trelawney are new ... Flitwick had quite a reputation as a duelling champion years ago, before the International Ban on Duelling, but Trelawney is a complete fraud, god knows how _she_ got a job here, and I think she hits the sherry a bit, too. And who would have thought that Severus Snape would ever be on the staff? He was a grubby little third year when I was in my final year, I remember _him_, he hung around Lucius Malfoy and he was always getting detentions for fighting with the Gryffindor boys in his year.

He glances up at the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall – pitch black, looks like the rain still hasn't let up – and thinks, no, the weather hasn't changed, and it's been a devilishly tricky business to keep up my tan in these conditions ... I left England as soon as I graduated from Hogwarts to get away from weather like _this_. And I didn't come back for years, that fellow they call He Who Must Not Be Named was causing an awful lot of trouble and the Ministry seemed to be making a complete hash of things - the Muggle news was full of it, storms and collapsing buildings and terrorist attacks and so on in Britain. The Muggles had no idea what was going on, but I knew, and I did the sensible thing, stayed abroad until He Who Must Not Be Named had been sorted out ... and a few Galleons go a long way in India, that's where I picked up the material for _Year with the Yeti_, from the Tibetan refugees in Dharamsala. But I never dreamed that a little travelogue like that would be so popular! It had six solid months at the top of the best-seller list, it broke all records and really got my career started, not that I realised then what a hard slog it was going to be ... no, fame and fortune don't come cheaply, it's not all book signings and publicity photos.

He takes another sip of the wine, reflects on the dangers and discomforts that he's faced, and thinks, the werewolf book was the worst ... the Wagga Wagga werewolf's behaviour was positively _alarming_ after he read what I'd written about him, I had no choice but to obliviate him - but what did he expect? I couldn't say that he Apparates into the bush and chains himself to a rock every full moon, nobody wants to read about _nice_ werewolves, so I had to put in lots of slavering and howling ... and something about the Homorphus Charm, I'm not exactly sure what that is but it sounds good, damn good, and no-one's picked me up on it yet.

Then he leans back in his chair, feeling pleasantly full and a little inebriated, and thinks, it might be a bit dull here at Hogwarts, but it's only a twelve month contract, and the job is money for jam. My publishers were thrilled when I told them I was taking up the Defence position – and I didn't even have to apply for it, Dumbledore _offered_ it to me when I ran into him at old Slughorn's party last summer. And it's been marvellous for book sales, eight hundred kids have bought the complete set of my travel books, and sales of _Magical Me_ and that other little thing I did on household pests are booming ... wasn't that a real piece of luck, the Boy Who Lived showing up at my book launch, and Harry's not camera-shy, is he? A little taste of fame and he can't get enough of it! I know that Harry's got chapters devoted to him in _Modern Magical History_, _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_, but there's nothing quite like seeing your face on the front page of the_ Prophet_, is there? The boy's caught the bug, all right!

Merlin knows why Lucius Malfoy was scuffling with that Weasley fellow in Flourish and Blotts, I can't think why a member of the Board of Governors would get into a fist-fight with a minor Ministry clerk, but it tied in very nicely with my announcement that I was taking up the Hogwarts job ... my word, but Lucius is looking good - _was_ looking good, until his eye swelled up - but Lucius has always looked after himself, I've got nothing to teach _him_ about hair and skin care! Not like Harry, that was a good stunt he pulled with the flying car, that got him some more headlines, the young scallywag, but he needs a few tips - he needs to do something about his hair _and_ he's getting a couple of spots, I hope he doesn't try to hex them off like Emmeline Vance did in third year, oh dear she did make a mess of herself! And Harry's dress sense, urgh, those Muggle things he was wearing in Diagon Alley simply won't do if he wants to make a good impression in the wizarding world ... green robes would match his eyes nicely, I should suggest that to him. Nice looking boy, Harry – he'll be rather fanciable when he grows up a bit, he'll have a horde of female fans then, but it's definitely a bit early for him to be handing out signed photographs.

He nibbles a bit more of the custard tart and thinks briefly, wistfully, of all the handsome boys at Hogwarts, all the handsome boys who are strictly out of bounds for Gilderoy Lockhart, five times winner of _Witch Weekly's_ Most-Charming-Smile Award – and then starts listening to Minerva telling him about the troll that interrupted last year's Halloween Feast. He thinks, my old Head of House isn't such a bad old stick, she really seemed to appreciate the hints I gave her on mastering the Animagus transformation, and she must be pleased that I've made something of myself, not that I was a _complete_ nobody at school, after all, I was the second reserve Seeker on the Quidditch team in fifth year ... interesting story about that troll, so Harry got involved, eh? Trapped it in a girls' bathroom – not quite the same as cornering a werewolf in a telephone box, but not a bad effort for a kid.

He's begun telling Dumbledore and Minerva an amusing anecdote out of _Travels with Trolls_ when he notices that Snape is staring at him again, but Snape looks away as soon as he looks up, and avoids his eye. He thinks, Snape has improved – not that he'll ever be handsome, not with _that_ nose – but the hair is still a disaster, and those black robes are so _dreary_ ... well, I suppose black doesn't show the dirt. I wonder if he wants to ask me about hair-care potions? I mentioned them to him when I popped down to the dungeons to introduce myself and to let him know that I've dabbled in a little Potions brewing myself, I gave Damocles Belby quite a bit of help with his new Wolfsbane Potion - there's nothing like doing research in the field, is there? Damocles has been awarded an Order of Merlin, First Class, for the invention of the Wolfsbane Potion, and that's a bit rich, considering mine is only Third Class ... and I put a huge amount of effort into _Wanderings with Werewolves_, it wasn't just a jaunt to the sunny Antipodes, was it? No, I had to spend months in central Europe, and Armenia was the worst, simply hideous - hardly any Floo Network to speak of, and the Cushioning Charms on that broomstick I hired left a _lot_ to be desired. And that old warlock was so ugly ... all moles and wrinkles and missing teeth ...

Yes, he thinks, Snape was a bit short with me when I went down to his office to say hullo, poor fellow, he must have been so embarrassed - he's the Potions master and he can't do a _thing_ with his hair. And good hair is so important, it made such a difference when I started curling my hair! So I made a point of mentioning that my ambition is to rid the world of evil and to market my own range of hair-care potions – that's hardly a secret, I say so quite clearly in the last chapter of _Magical Me_. Still, I think extra points are justified for students who get the answer to that question – like that clever little Hermione Granger – because _Magical Me_ isn't on the required reading list. I can help Snape with his hair, but doing something about his teeth is beyond me, though, I see a Muggle dentist myself ... I'd give him my dentist's phone number except that for most of these Slytherin purebloods it's a point of honour not to know what a telephone is.

The feast is finishing up and the students are pouring out of the Great Hall, babbling cheerfully, Minerva is saying something to him about turning in as soon as she can, it's been a long evening and she's got a headache, so she hastily says good night and hurries off after Dumbledore. For a moment he wonders if there's anything between Minerva and the Headmaster, the man is _ancient_ but he does dress well and power is an aphrodisiac ... and then he remembers the mountain of fan mail piled up in his office and thinks, no question of tackling any of that tonight, it's far too late, it's straight to bed for me, too, after all, it does take at least half an hour to get my hair into rollers. So he dawdles up the stairs after Dumbledore and Minerva, chatting pleasantly with a knot of fifth year girls and thinking, the Halloween Feast was fun, and we've got Christmas coming up in a couple of months, but then it's a long haul until winter is over ... unless I organise something for Valentine's Day ...

Then he turns into the second floor corridor, and he can hear Filch shouting about his cat, that rather unattractive feline called Mrs Harris or something like that ... and then he can hear the Headmaster's voice. What on earth is going on? He pushes forward through the milling crowd of students, to find Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger backed up against the wall of the corridor, a wall that's been daubed with a peculiar message.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Of course he knows what the Chamber of Secrets is, some apocryphal secret chamber that can only opened by the true heir of Salazar Slytherin, and he can remember when a couple of Slytherin sixth years went missing for two days trying to find it – eventually the house-elves found them in some old cellars under the kitchens – so what are three young Gryffindors doing mixed up in this?

The Headmaster is holding something furry, and he realises that it's a cat, but there's something odd about the animal, there's something wrong with her, she's all ... stiff. Is she _dead?_ The cat must be dead if she's gone stiff – what Muggles call rigor mortis – she must have been dead for several hours.

Filch is looking as if he's about to hit Harry or burst into tears or both, surely he doesn't think the Boy Who Lived has anything to do with this? But his cat has been killed and that's pretty nasty, that's going beyond a joke ...

The Headmaster is taking it seriously, he's telling Filch and the three Gryffindor students to come with him, but there's no need to go all the way to the Headmaster's office when his own is so close – just on the next floor.

He follows Dumbledore, and so do Minerva and Snape, and he briefly wonders – where did Snape come from so quickly, shouldn't he be on his way down to the dungeons? But he has to hurry ahead, to usher them into his office and light the candles, and he's annoyed that several of the portrait Lockharts aren't quick enough to dodge out of sight before his visitors can see the rollers in their hair.

The Headmaster lays the animal on the polished surface of the desk and begins examining her, the tip of his nose barely an inch from her fur, and his long fingers gently prodding and poking her - and Minerva is bent almost as close. Snape is standing back, half in shadow, and Filch is slumped in a chair by the desk, sobbing, his face in his hands.

He wonders what Dumbledore and Minerva are doing when it's clear that the unfortunate creature is as dead as a doornail, and then he realises that they're trying to work out how she died. And he thinks, if she was killed by magic ... well, this is a bit of luck, really, a sinister little mystery like this, I might get a book out of this year at Hogwarts, but I need a good title, _High Jinks at Hogwarts_ has a nice ring to it ...

So he hovers around, after all, he's the Defence teacher, he should be involved – and it's a chance to show off his knowledge of deadly curses. Of course the Headmaster will be familiar with the _Avada Kedavra_ but there's the Transmogrifian Torture, very popular on the Continent during the Grindelwald war, a particularly vicious hex by all accounts, and some rather horrible killings that took place recently in Burkina Faso, he'd heard about them from some African wizards he'd met in a bar in Paris - there's any number of unpleasant curses that could have killed the animal, and they're all in his books.

The Headmaster is muttering incantations and tapping the body with his wand, and at last he says, "She's not dead, Argus."

Not dead! He stops running through the list of murders he could have prevented, given the chance, and wonders what this means – what in Merlin's name could freeze Filch's cat like this, but not kill her?

"Not dead?" Filch chokes, looking through his fingers at his cat. "But why's she all – all stiff and frozen?"

"She has been Petrified," says Dumbledore.

Petrified, _of course_, he was just about to say that himself ...

"Ah! I thought so!" he exclaims, thinking, this is a bit disappointing but there still might be enough material for a book, I'll have to talk to my editor ...

"But how, I cannot say," continues Dumbledore.

"Ask _him!_" Filch shrieks, turning towards Harry.

He thinks, I can see that Filch is worried about his pet but this is ridiculous - what would Harry know about this? Whoever wrote those words on the wall cast the curse on the cat, and, well, I hate to point the finger, but this looks like the work of a Slytherin. And Miss Granger couldn't possibly be involved, she's Muggle-born, and Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts because he didn't agree that Hogwarts should accept Muggle-born students.

"No second-year could have done this," says the Headmaster firmly. "It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced -"

"He did it, he did it!" Filch spits, his face purpling. "You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found – in my office – he knows I'm a – I'm a ... he knows I'm a Squib!"

Filch is a Squib? No wonder Filch is so upset but it's not really a surprise, because he's never seen Filch use a wand. And another reason to suspect a Slytherin, they've always been very hard on Squibs, Binns said something once about Squibs being put to death by pureblood Slytherin families back in the old days, in the days of Wendelin the Weird – Binns occasionally says some interesting things if you can stay awake through his classes – and the Longbottom boy is lucky that he comes from a Gryffindor family, he would have had a very hard time of it if he'd been Sorted into Slytherin.

Harry is protesting that he didn't touch the cat, and the Headmaster seems satisfied, but Snape is speaking up, asking why Harry and his friends weren't at the Halloween feast.

The young Gryffindors explain that they were attending Sir Nicholas' five hundredth deathday party, which sounds fascinating and a useful bit of filler for _High Jinks at Hogwarts_ - particularly the Headless Hunt, that's the kind of entertaining detail that the fans love - but Snape wants to know why they didn't join the feast afterwards.

Harry says something about being tired and wanting to go to bed, and he thinks, me too, it's after midnight now, and I've got a nine o'clock class tomorrow, I'll be an absolute zombie in the morning if I don't get to bed soon. And why make such a fuss? The animal hasn't been killed and it's only a student's joke, not a particularly funny one, but still, it's only a Halloween prank, and Filch is hardly popular with the students.

Snape is not giving up, though, he's pointing out that ghosts don't provide food fit for living people at their parties, but Ronald Weasley says they weren't hungry enough to come down to the feast, and that sounds reasonable, the kids have probably got a pile of snacks and treats sent from home stashed away in their dormitories, anyway.

He's starting to feel a little annoyed with Snape, really, one would think the fellow had something personal against Harry, the unpleasant way that he's suggesting that Harry is lying, but now Snape's behaviour is making sense – Snape wants Harry taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and Harry's a pretty useful Seeker, from what he's heard. He thinks, this is rather a shabby trick, trying to nobble the Gryffindor team before the season even starts! Naturally, Minerva is protesting, she's saying there's no evidence at all that Harry has done anything wrong, and the Headmaster agrees, he looks at Harry, and says, "Innocent until proven guilty, Severus."

Snape looks peeved, and then Filch starts making a fuss, wailing that his cat has been Petrified and demanding that someone be punished. Patiently, Dumbledore explains that there is a cure – when Madam Sprout's mandrakes have reached their full size, they can be used to make a potion that will revive the animal – but Filch is still looking distressed, so he steps in, says something that's bound to reassure the poor old chap.

"I'll make it," he says cheerfully. "I must have done it a hundred times, I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep -"

"Excuse me," Snape butts in, "but I believe I am the Potions master at this school."

There's an awkward silence, and he's a bit taken aback at such open rudeness in front of students, when he's just doing the decent thing and offering to be helpful. Then he thinks, Flitwick warned me that Snape can be rather prickly from time to time, and someone told me that Snape was interested in the Defence position himself - he must be jealous. Understandable, I suppose, I'm an internationally famous and world travelled wizard, and who's ever heard of Severus Snape? Snape must be envious, and he can't help showing it, the poor devil.

The Headmaster tells Harry and his friends that they may go, they hurry out the door, and Snape looks like he might be about to say something more, but the Headmaster is raising his hand in a peace-making gesture, and without another word Snape turns on his heel and walks out of the room.

He thinks, I don't want people to get the wrong idea, I don't want them to think that I'm trying to show Snape up, and I'm sure that he's perfectly capable of tackling a Restorative Draught, of course, I'm happy to lend a hand if needed ... so he beams at Filch, and says, "Well, now we've got the problem with your cat sorted out, I think it's off to bed for all of us, don't you think? And don't worry, Filch, if Professor Snape runs into any problems with the Restorative Draught, I'm always happy to pass on my expertise to less able wizards."


	3. Chapter 3: Severus Snape

**Chapter 3: Severus Snape**

He glances down the table, sees the Headmaster plying Lockhart with yet another piece of custard tart, and he feels a searing stab of jealousy because normally that's where _he_ sits, but there's been a frantic reshuffling of the seating arrangements since Lockhart arrived. Everyone has scrambled to get as far away from the vainglorious pillock as possible, and now he's sulking in self-imposed exile a long way down the table, next to doddery old Kettleburn – while Lockhart occupies the place at Dumbledore's right hand, next to Minerva. Nothing seems to ruffle the Headmaster, but it looks like Minerva is getting another one of her headaches ... serves her right, Lockhart is one of her blasted Gryffindors, after all, and what an ornament to the House of Wankers _he_ is! And Minerva knows that he's a fraud - the look on her face was priceless when she heard Lockhart banging on in the staff room about the Wagga Wagga werewolf and the Homorphus Charm, because she knows full well that the Homorphus Charm forces an Animagus to assume his or her human form, it has no effect on a werewolf because _nothing_ stops a transformed werewolf except the _Avada Kedavra_ or a Muggle silver bullet.

To be fair, it does take guts to pull off a swindle of this magnitude and the audacity of it would be amusing if it didn't affect him personally, but it hurts, it _hurts_ that Dumbledore would appoint a buffoon like Lockhart to the Defence position instead of him. It's an annual ritual, an annual charade that he goes through, applying for the DADA position - because he's _never_ going to get it, is he? And he doesn't know why Dumbledore refuses him the job, doesn't the Headmaster trust him enough to give it to him? Does Dumbledore really think that if he teaches Defence he's going to lose his grip, and go, ah, back to his old ways? And hasn't he proved that he can be trusted around Harry Potter, hasn't he proved that he can be trusted around the boy with James Potter's face and Lily Evans' eyes?

Potter, precious bloody Harry Potter, playing on the Gryffindor team in his first year at Hogwarts, not even his arsehole of a father had managed _that_ ... and he'd known that there was no chance that Potter would be expelled for pulling that stunt with the flying car. Potter is Dumbledore's darling, Dumbledore's Golden Gryffindor, and Potter is the _weapon_ – the weapon against the Dark Lord. But he'd been hungry, cold and cranky after searching the grounds for over an hour, looking for Potter and his faithful sidekick, and he'd lost his temper when he'd overheard the little bastards gloating over how he'd missed out on the Defence job yet again - and so for a moment he'd allowed himself to dream, to dream of James Potter's spawn disgraced, expelled, his wand snapped in two ...

Kettleburn is saying something about the increase in the number of Acromantula in the Forbidden Forest in recent years, and he mutters something in reply, pushing the piece of treacle pudding around on his plate – it's a trick that every kid knows, cut the food up into small pieces and push it around a bit, make it look as if you've eaten at least some of it - but even if it wasn't for Lockhart's presence at the table he wouldn't have much appetite tonight. Not tonight, not on the anniversary of the night that the Dark Lord fell and Lily died - not that he can remember much of that night or the days that followed. Funnily enough, he'd been with the Headmaster at the time, hashing over yet again who was the spy, who was the source close to the Potters that was feeding information to the Dark Lord - and when the Dark Mark had hurt like hell, burned black and then faded away completely they'd both known that something had happened, something serious, something that involved _the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord_. Everything after that was a bit of a blur, and he suspected that a hell of a lot of firewhisky and perhaps some mind-altering potions of the kind that students should definitely not try to brew had been involved.

Yes, he'd been with Dumbledore when it happened, trying to convince the Headmaster that it must be Lupin, it must be the werewolf who was the traitor - he'd never suspected for a moment that it was Black. But he had suspected Black of sniffing around Lily, he had suspected Black of carrying a torch for his best friend's wife – and maybe that's why Black betrayed James Potter. Had the Dark Lord promised Lily to Black, when he'd killed her husband and her child? It wouldn't bother the Dark Lord that he'd already promised Lily to _him_, to Severus Snape, no, it wouldn't bother the Dark Lord to break a promise.

Wouldn't it be a delicious irony - worthy of a Muggle romance novel - if the Dark Lord had made the same promise to him and to Sirius Black, if the Dark Lord had promised James Potter's beautiful wife to both his best friend and his worst enemy? And wouldn't it be a cruel joke if the Dark Lord had bought Sirius Black with the same promise that had driven him into Dumbledore's arms? Not that he'd ever been in _love _with Lily, but they'd become friends - for what _that_ was worth - when Slughorn threw them together in his special advanced tutorials for "his two most brilliant NEWTs students", and he'd certainly fancied her, who didn't? She was gorgeous, he wasn't the only Slytherin to have noticed her – and he'd indulged in some pretty lurid fantasies about her, even after she married Potter.

He hadn't been quick enough to hide his feelings when the Dark Lord had called them together to tell them that the Potter boy was the one, the one he was going after – and the Dark Lord actually thought he was being generous, giving him a reward for bringing him the god-damn prophecy, when he'd said, "I can see you're … attracted … to the Mudblood witch. You can have her when I've killed Potter and the boy." But by the time the Dark Lord had finished with Lily, by the time he had obliviated all her memories of James and the baby, she'd hardly be recognizable as the same person, she'd just be a body to use - it would be nearly as bad as a Dementor's Kiss, and he couldn't let that happen. And he couldn't let the brat die, not when he knew how much she loved her little Potter-clone, she'd do anything to protect the tiny, mewling lump he'd seen in her arms that time he'd bumped into her in the Leaky Cauldron by carefully orchestrated chance - even die for it. So he'd gone to the Headmaster, to the only wizard the Dark Lord ever feared, and blurted it all out ... and he'd thought it would be Azkaban but Dumbledore had other ideas, and now it's Black who will rot in Azkaban for the rest of his life.

Black is in Azkaban, Potter and Pettigrew are dead, and who knows or cares what has become of Lupin? Werewolves aren't very popular, are they - not after the way that Fenrir Greyback and his pack behaved in the war, and why haven't the Aurors hunted Greyback down and killed him? Hell, he'd gladly do it himself, if the opportunity ever came up, he'd gladly kill the filthy, stinking thing himself if he got the chance. It's not wrong to kill a werewolf, a werewolf is diseased, unclean – a werewolf isn't _human_. Exterminating Greyback and his pack of ferals is the kind of thing that deserves an Order of Merlin, First Class – not inventing a potion to make life easy for the disgusting beasts, to soothe the pain of their transformations, to enable them to pretend that they're normal, that they're safe, that they're _tame_.

He remembers the beginning of term, when Lockhart came down to the dungeons and crapped on about Damocles Belby and his new Wolfsbane Potion, and he'd realized exactly who Lockhart was. Lockhart had been in the same year as Lucius, and he'd made it pretty damn clear what he was, the pathetic way that he'd mooned over Lucius from the Gryffindor table – he'd been a standing joke amongst the Slytherins, and probably among the other Houses as well. Not that Lockhart's adoration had bothered Lucius, because Lucius considered adoration to be his rightful due ...

He lets his eyes wander towards Lockhart again - the revolting faggot is wearing lilac robes tonight, his favourite colour according to _Year with the Yeti_. Not that the students have the slightest inkling that Gilderoy Lockhart, five times winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award, is _queer_ - but if he lets that drop, he'll be the one in deep shit, the Headmaster has made that clear. Very clear.

Lockhart looks up, catches his eye for a moment, and he looks away, discomforted as well as angry, if he keeps looking at Lockhart like that, Lockhart might get the idea that he's _interested_, urgh. He thinks, Lockhart can't be a child molester, surely Dumbledore wouldn't have him at Hogwarts if there was any risk of that, but I still don't like the way that he pays so much attention to Potter, if Potter was in _my_ House I wouldn't have let him serve detention with Lockhart. No, I don't let any of my boys serve detention with Lockhart, they can do some cleaning for Filch, Muggle-style, find out what it's like to live without magic ...

Then Kettleburn says something that breaks his train of thought, says something about the troll that disturbed last year's Halloween Feast, and he remembers Quirrell, remembers when the Headmaster called him into his office to tell him what Quirrell was, to tell him what Quirrell kept hidden under that turban. It had been a horrible shock to hear that, to realise that the Dark Lord had had him under his eye for the whole of last year - and he hadn't suspected a thing, he hadn't felt the slightest twinge in his left forearm. Oh, he'd been convinced that Quirrell was up to no good, he'd guessed that he was after the Philosopher's Stone, he known that he was a danger to Potter, but he hadn't dreamed for a moment that Quirrell was possessed by the Dark Lord. Sweet Merlin, that had been a terrifying piece of news, and if the Dark Lord is ever restored to a body ... better not to think of that, of what _that_ will mean.

And if the Dark Lord ever returns, if he ever regains a body, he'll be after Potter - Potter will be his number one target. The Dark Lord isn't stupid, he isn't going to let the Boy Who Lived grow up and reach his full powers before he kills him, and how is Dumbledore going to keep Potter safe? He remembers how Potter went roaming after Quirrell's troll instead of going straight to the Gryffindor dormitory, the stupid foolhardy boy – but the rules don't apply to famous Harry Potter, do they?

He runs his eye down the Gryffindor table, looking for Potter, he could easily miss Potter amongst the crowd at the table but he can't see the Weasley sidekick's red hair – it's just like the Muggle nursery rhyme, everywhere that Potter went, the Weasel is sure to follow – and that's puzzling because students rarely miss a feast. He can see Ginny Weasley, though, a plain little thing aside from her gorgeous red hair, and there's something odd about that girl, she's acted quite strangely once or twice in her Potions classes, and he's been wondering whether he should say something to Minerva. The girl reminds him of someone coming out from under an extended bout of the Imperius Curse – dazed and confused – but he doesn't really relish the thought of a long conversation with Minerva about the after-effects of one of the Unforgiveable Curses, he doesn't relish that at all, so perhaps he won't say anything.

Finally, thankfully, the meal is over and the students pour out of the Great Hall, babbling noisily. All of his Slytherins should be making their way down towards their dungeon common room and he's about to follow them when he spots Draco Malfoy climbing the stairs amongst a crowd of Ravenclaws, no doubt intending to borrow someone's Charms essay, and that's bloody annoying because it's nearly midnight and this is no time for inter-House friendships. He follows the crowd up the stairs, thinking, Draco will get the sharp edge of my tongue when I catch up with him, if not a detention with Filch - and then he can hear shouting in the second floor corridor, Filch is screaming something about his cat being killed, and then he can hear Dumbledore's voice.

The students scatter out of his way, he catches up with Minerva and Lockhart, and he can see the Headmaster lifting Mrs Norris down from a torch bracket. Filch is standing next to him, looking distraught, and behind them, backed up against the wall, are Potter, Weasley and Granger - the know-it-all Muggle-born girl who's nearly always with them - and he can tell by the looks on their faces that they're not innocent bystanders. And above their heads, written on the wall in letters a foot tall, is a peculiar message.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Dumbledore is looking grave, and there's something odd about the bundle of fur in his arms – Mrs Norris is as stiff as a board. Is she dead?

"Come with me, Argus," says Dumbledore. "You too, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger."

Lockhart thrusts himself forward eagerly. "My office is nearest, Headmaster – just upstairs – feel free - "

Dumbledore thanks Lockhart and heads towards the stairs, and Filch and the Gryffindor brats follow, through the silent crowd that parts to let them pass. Lockhart hurries after Dumbledore, but Minerva hangs back for a moment, looking at him with her eyebrows raised in a silent question. Of course he knows what the Chamber of Secrets is - every Slytherin knows about the hidden chamber that can only be opened by Salazar Slytherin's true heir and the monster that dwells inside it - it's hardly a secret, it's mentioned in _Hogwarts: A History_, but he shrugs his shoulders to signify that he knows no more than she does about this mystery.

They follow the others through the hushed mob of students and he starts turning the situation over in his mind ... clearly, there's a connection between the writing on the wall and the cat, and the cat must have died hours ago for rigor mortis to have set in – but if she's been dead for hours, why would the perpetrators still be hanging around the scene of the crime? If the animal has been killed, this is a nasty prank at Filch's expense - exactly the sort of thing that Potter would do because he's as alike to his father in temperament as he is in looks, and Weasley seems incapable of independent thought ... but it's surprising that Granger is involved - she seems the soft-hearted, cat-loving type.

But perhaps Mrs Norris isn't dead - not even rigor mortis makes a body look like that, the animal looks as if she's been recently stuffed – has she been cursed? Hit with a Freezing Charm that the brats didn't know how to reverse? And if Potter or Weasley hexed the beast in a fit of temper, Granger would have been smart enough to come up with the idea of daubing some nonsense about the Chamber of Secrets on the wall to point the finger of suspicion at a Slytherin. A sly trick, but Granger has broken the rules to get her friends out of trouble before, she lied about the troll ... Of course it would have been a lot simpler just to take to their heels and leave the body where it was, but there's no real doubt that the Gryffindors have something to do with this unpleasant business - they weren't at the feast, were they? The circumstances are definitely suspicious ...

And then he remembers the detention that Draco got last year for being out of bed at one o'clock in the morning, lured into trouble by some cock-and-bull story about a dragon - even Minerva had been furious at that spiteful little prank and she'd taken 200 points from her own House. Maybe Granger is more of a bitch than he'd given her credit for - is this revenge for the Mudblood insult on the Quidditch pitch? Because Draco Malfoy is the most likely person to be pinned as the Heir of Slytherin, and victimizing Filch's cat is a smart move, a very smart move ... Filch is a friend of Slytherin House, but he's not quite rational about his cat, any attack on his precious pet and he can be counted on to bay for blood. A very smart move, but it's backfired badly – Potter and his friends have been caught in the act, and although it won't be expulsion, the punishment will be severe ... perhaps a string of Saturday morning detentions, and with the Quidditch season just about to start, too ... oh dear, oh dear, Potter won't be very popular with his House-mates if he's off the Quidditch team, will he?

They reach the door of Lockhart's office – he's never been inside it before, but he's not surprised by the number of framed photographs of Lockhart that adorn the walls, and he notes with malicious glee the rollers in the hair of the Lockharts dodging out of sight.

Lockhart fusses around lighting the candles on his desk, and Dumbledore lays Mrs Norris on the polished surface of the desk and begins examining her, the tip of his nose barely an inch from her fur and his long fingers gently prodding and poking her. Minerva is bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed, Filch slumps in a chair by the desk, sobbing, his face in his hands, and Potter and his friends are huddled by the door, looking anxious.

He stands back, watching - clearly it's no simple Freezing Charm, the Headmaster would have lifted that in seconds. No, if it is a curse then it's something much, _much_ nastier than that, probably Petrification - and Potter is in it up to his ears. Perhaps he's underestimated Potter just because the boy shows no more aptitude at Potions than his father did, he's got nothing of his mother's talent – perhaps the Boy Who Lived, the boy who destroyed the Dark Lord's body and who killed Quirrell by the power of touch alone, has hidden depths, murky depths. He can barely restrain a smile at that thought ... oh, Dumbledore isn't going to like _this_, and he won't be able to ignore it, either.

Then something that Lockhart is saying catches his attention, the idiot is prattling on about the Transmogrifian Torture, saying he's seen it many times, and what a joke that is, _that_ curse doesn't make the subject's body go rigid, quite the reverse - it melts the victim's body, makes it go all ... sort of manky and runny ...

The Headmaster is muttering incantations under his breath and tapping Mrs Norris with his wand, and at last he turns to Filch and says, "She's not dead, Argus."

Ah, this _is_ interesting ... it must be Petrification, as he'd suspected. And who would have thought that the Golden Gryffindor would know such Dark magic?

Filch is asking why Mrs Norris is all stiff, if she's not dead, and Dumbledore explains that she's been Petrified, but he doesn't know how, and then Filch starts shrieking and blaming Potter.

Dumbledore is defending Potter, saying that no second-year could have done it, but before he can protest - because surely the Headmaster can't believe that Potter isn't involved in some way - Filch starts whimpering and blithering that he's a Squib and that Potter knows because he's seen Filch's Kwikspell correspondence course letter.

He thinks, it's hardly news that Filch is a Squib, there can't be anyone in the school who hasn't worked _that_ out for themselves because he never uses a wand, the poor sad old bastard ... but he can see in Potter's eyes that he knows about the Kwikspell letter. Filch must be a complete cretin to have left anything important, anything _sensitive_, sitting around where Potter could get his hands on it - and what else is Potter lying about? It's definitely time that someone asked some logical questions and got to the bottom of this.

"If I might speak, Headmaster," he says. "Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why were they in the upstairs corridor at all? Why weren't they at the Halloween feast?"

Potter and his friends start yapping about the Gryffindor Ghost's Deathday Party, claiming that the ghosts can confirm that's where they were. Fine, they have explanation for why they weren't at the feast, but not for what they were doing in this corridor, which isn't even on the direct route from the dungeons to the Gryffindor tower. No, they've been careful to avoid answering _that_ question.

"But why not join the feast afterwards?" he asks. "Why go up that corridor?"

Weasley and Granger look confused, and Potter mutters something about being tired and wanting to go to bed. Oh, he's lying all right, Potter came up this corridor for a reason - a reason that he's trying to hide - but without using active Legilimency, which would require the use of his wand, he can't see the reason. But the food at ghosts' parties is inedible - the three hungry brats should have come scurrying into the Great Hall to fill themselves up on puddings. How are they going to explain that?

"Without any supper?" he queries, a smile flickering across his face. "I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties."

"We weren't hungry," says the Weasley boy loudly, but his rumbling stomach gives the lie to that.

Oh, this is just getting better and better, Potter has been caught out telling a veritable daisy chain of lies, and Dumbledore must know it, too - but how to squeeze the truth out of the boy, without the aid of Veritaserum or Legilimency? Indirect pressure will need to be brought to bear, and Potter loves Quidditch – and the popularity it brings him - as much as his loathsome father did.

His smile widens. "I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful. It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest."

Minerva objects, as he expected she would, protesting that the cat wasn't hit over the head with a broomstick. She's saying that there's no evidence that Potter has done anything wrong, but the Headmaster will back him up, Dumbledore is a Legilimens, he _must_ know that Potter is being less than truthful.

Dumbledore looks at Potter, and says, "Innocent until proven guilty, Severus."

He can hardly believe it, the Headmaster knows that Potter is lying – so why is Dumbledore letting Potter get away with this? Even after Black's betrayal, does the Headmaster _still_ believe that a Gryffindor can do no wrong?

He knows that his fury is showing on his face – and then Filch gives voice to his feelings.

"My cat has been Petrified!" Filch shrieks. "I want to see some _punishment!_"

"We will be able to cure her, Argus," says Dumbledore gently. "Madam Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs Norris."

He's thinking, I can make the damn potion easily enough, but that's not enough, it's not enough to defrost Mrs Norris and sweep Potter's nasty little prank under the carpet and forget about it, there has to be punishment - when Lockhart butts in. "I'll make it. I must have done it a hundred times, I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep -".

He's incredulous - Lockhart dares to buy into this, dares to interfere in a matter between himself and the Headmaster? Lockhart dares to poach in his territory? He's smirked before when Lockhart stepped on the toes of the other teaching staff, but _this _is intolerable. He opens his mouth – remembers that there are students present, and whatever the provocation he'll never slag a colleague in front of students – and restrains himself.

"Excuse me," he says, icily, "but I believe I am the Potions master at this school."

There is a long, awkward silence.

"You may go," Dumbledore says to the brats.

The Gryffindors scuttle from the room and as soon as the door bangs behind them, he turns on Lockhart, he's really going to let the bastard have it, oh yes, he'll have the bloody pansy in _tears_ before he's finished with him – when the Headmaster raises his hand. But it's not the raised hand that stops him in his tracks, it's what he can read in Dumbledore's eyes – the Headmaster is worried, really worried, he knows that Potter isn't telling the truth but that's not what's bothering him, and Dumbledore is silently pleading with him, _don't make a scene, Severus, not now, not tonight_ ...

He chokes back the scathing words on his lips but he doesn't trust himself to stay in the same room as Lockhart without exploding, so without another word he turns on his heel and stalks out of Lockhart's office. But as he walks down the stairs towards the dungeons the face of Lucius Malfoy floats, unbidden, into his mind, and he remembers the hints that Lucius dropped last summer that there's going to be trouble at Hogwarts this year. Vague hints, because although they're friends – hell, Lucius is pretty much his only friend – Lucius knows better than to expect him to sit back quietly and let Lucius meddle in Hogwarts affairs.

He thinks, I'm damned if I can see a connection between Lucius Malfoy and Filch's cat, but I'll talk to Albus tomorrow - after I've made a few inquiries in my own House, made sure that none of my Slytherins are mixed up in this - and Lockhart can keep, I'll sort _him_ out some other time. 


End file.
